


Showing You

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana always expected she’d do it first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing You

Title: Showing You  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None.  
Summary: Santana always expected she’d do it first.

  
They’ve been friends for a long time—a very long time—so when Brittany comes to Santana one afternoon and confides that she has “done it” for the first time, Santana can’t help but be floored. They’re fifteen, which means she’s known Brittany longer than half her lifetime: long enough to know Brittany loves mint chocolate chip ice cream with gummy bears, and that Brittany was afraid of big dogs until she was nine, and exactly how Brittany likes her head scratched after a bad day. She knows Brittany better than any movie she’s seen a hundred times over, and she knows how the story is _supposed_ to go. Sweet, goofy, innocent: _that_ is Brittany S. Pierce.

Brittany wasn’t supposed to _do it_ first. That just wasn’t in the game plan.

It’s not that she ever expected Brittany to be like Quinn Fabray, who stumbled into their lives in eighth grade waving a Bible above her head; she’s not stupid. Brittany is a fairly physical human being, and she’s kissed a damn lot of boys over the years—maybe more than even Santana has, which is saying something. But as far as Santana knows, it’s never gone further than that, or not _much_ further, which explains why she doesn’t quite know how to respond when Brittany plunks herself down on Santana’s mattress and smiles that radiantly proud smile of hers.

“I did it.”

“Finally beat my score on Tetris?” Santana snips mildly, flipping a page in _Entertainment Weekly_. Brittany’s hands close around her ankles, tugging her feet playfully left and right.

“No, silly. _It_.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes narrow, the magazine sinking a beat slower than her stomach. “Get the fuck out.”

Brittany’s lip twitches, the smile dying instantly. Santana shakes her head, grabbing for one thin wrist before her best friend can make for the door.

“Figure of speech, Britt. I just—with _who_?”

A thousand terrible names explode in her brain at once like one of those old VH-1 pop-up video segments. When Brittany’s smile returns full-force and she announces, “Brett Haverford,” Santana thinks it _could_ have been worse—she could have said Noah Puckerman, or Finn Hudson, for Christ’s sake, and then Santana would have to perform a fucking exorcism or some shit—but not by much. Haverford is a douchecastle and a half. Brittany deserves someone ten times better than that assclown.

“You’re kidding,” she manages. Brittany’s head whips from side to side, her tongue poking through her teeth.

“Last night, in his basement. It was kind of soggy down there, but he said it was better than trying to concentrate with Tubbs watching his every move. You know how jealous he can be.”

“Brett?” Santana asks dumbly.

“Tubbs.”

Santana sits up a little straighter and combs shaky fingers through her hair. This feels _weird_ in a way she never prepared for. The idea of Brittany actually doing that with someone—with a _boy_ —is jarring. Revolutionary, in a bad way. She can’t picture Brittany stretched out beneath some disgusting hulk, letting him put his meat-tenderizing hands all over her innocent, graceful body. It’s just…

“Sounds gross,” she hears herself say without meaning to. Instantly, she wants to clamp both hands over her own mouth and take it back, because popular girls don’t go around admitting that sex might be disgusting. _Especially_ not to other popular girls. But it’s a little late for second chances now; the words are out, and now she has to go with it. If she’s going to get through high school on top, she has to mean everything she says—even if she doesn’t want to.

“It was,” Brittany replies thoughtfully, “kind of. But it was also kind of fun, too. Parts of it. You know?”

Santana shakes her head, dimly aware of Brittany’s fingers drawing strange little curlicues up and down her shin. “Nah, I—“ _Haven’t gotten that far. Not yet._

“You haven’t?” Big blue eyes widen, the way they did when Santana told her about glow-in-the-dark jellyfish. She tries her best not to scowl.

“Don’t you think I would have told you if I had?”

Brittany considers this. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot.”

 _I forgot_ isn’t a new phrase in their friendship, not from Brittany’s lips, but Santana can’t help but be annoyed by it now. The idea that all it takes is one dumb dick and his dumb dick for something that big to slip Brittany’s mind is…not comforting. At all.

“I guess I just thought—“ Brittany pauses, clearly collecting her thoughts. “I mean, it’s you.”

“Yeah,” Santana grumbles, wondering why that stings so much. After all, isn’t this the person she swore to them both she would be, once they reached high school? _It’s you._ Sure. It’s who she’s _supposed_ to be.

Her. Not Brittany. Everyone knows that.

The mattress dips as Brittany swings both legs under herself, crawling until her butt is placed directly atop Santana’s kneecaps. She tries not to wince even as she reaches again for the magazine.

“It’s weird,” Brittany observes thoughtfully. “I always thought—“

“Me too.” It’s amazing how much Santana does not want to be having this conversation. She’s never regretted being someone’s best friend before, but if best friends are the only ones who have to listen to Brittany rave about some asshole’s sexual prowess—she’ll pass. She’ll _totally_ fucking pass. Quinn can take this job.

“And you’ve never even—I mean, you haven’t _tried_ it?”

Santana slams the magazine down, wishing for something heavier and therefore more dramatic. “ _No_ , okay? God, Britt. I told you that.”

There’s a stretch of silence longer than either of them is used to. Long enough for guilt to well up in Santana’s chest, pounding relentlessly against the disgust already weighted there. She swallows.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just—“

“It’s interesting,” Brittany begins at the same time, barreling right over Santana’s apology. She lifts herself up slowly, inching forward on her knees until her body hovers above Santana’s thighs. “The feeling. It’s kind of weird, and actually, it kind of hurts…sort of a lot…”

Santana swallows uncomfortably. “I really don’t need the details—“

“The _doing it_ part, I’m not sure I like,” Brittany continues. “But the other parts…they’re not so bad. I think I like the other parts.”

Her hips have settled in Santana’s lap, her hands resting comfortably on the wall behind the headboard. She’s still smiling, the way she does when they get to the romantic part of a movie—the one Santana’s always rolling her eyes at and pretending she doesn’t find sort of helplessly wonderful—and it’s beginning to make Santana feel…

She wants to say _uncomfortable_ , but she’s pretty sure there’s another word that suits better.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” she forces herself to grunt, fists flexing at her sides. “Look, B, I’m not exactly feeling like chair material today, so—“

“You start off kind of slow,” Brittany says softly, shifting her hips from side to side. Her hands slink down, touching to Santana’s shoulders lightly, sliding around her neck until her fingertips meet. Santana catches hold of the blankets in both hands, squeezing.

“Britt, I don’t know what—“

“Showing you." Brittany nudges forward with her hips. "You've never done it, and I'm not so good with words, so..."

Santana's mouth dries, her stomach balling up upon itself. “I don't get it. You’re showing what—“

 _"He_ didn’t really go slow,” Brittany corrects herself as if Santana isn't speaking, that smile still tugging at her lips. Her fingertips trail across the back of Santana’s neck, beneath her hair, tracing hot circles into the skin. “None of it was really slow, and I think that was why it wasn’t awesome. You know: like they say it will be, on all the TV shows? He was all excited about it, and it went really fast, and that kind of sucked.”

Santana hates to admit having _anything_ in common with Brett Haverford, but the way Brittany’s looking at her kind of explains why anyone would be excited. Hell, _she’s_ excited, and this is her best friend in the world.

She really shouldn’t be excited.

“I think if it was more like this…” Her left hand comes around, panning across Santana’s jaw gently. “I think this would have been nicer. If it had been slow.”

Santana closes her eyes, willing her body to remain perfectly still. _Catatonic._ A statue. No matter what happens, no matter how tempting Brittany can be—and this isn’t the first time she’s been tempted, loathe though she is to say so—she cannot allow herself to move. She is part of the bed, nothing more, an extension of furniture.

Even when Brittany’s hips roll in a tight little circle and press down, just a fraction harder than Santana feels is appropriate for friends. _Statue. Furniture. Nothing more._

Brittany tilts her head, arching her back. The hand on Santana’s neck clasps a little tighter, short nails scratching their way up into her hair. “I think I like slow,” she says quietly, the pad of her left thumb catching on Santana’s bottom lip. “He wasn’t very good, if you want my opinion. I mean, maybe I’ll be nice and tell people he was, but…”

Santana inhales through her nose. Her hands pull up off the bed, lingering against her own thighs. A whisper away from where Brittany’s legs rest, the muscles tense and powerful from years of dance training.

“You didn’t like it? You sounded like you...” It’s hard to speak clearly with her head buried in fog, with Brittany’s thumb grazing along her lip the way it is. Thighs on either side of her hips clench once, then relax, a nod from Brittany’s whole body.

“Not really. Like I said, the beginning parts were kind of nice. But still not slow enough. Not like he cared enough. Do you think boys will ever care?”

Santana doesn’t know the answer to that, but all instinct begs her to say no. If Brittany wants someone to care, Santana’s pretty sure a boy shouldn’t be the one she goes to. Not when she has—

The nails skimming across her scalp urge up and down, following the rhythm of Brittany’s hips, and Santana belatedly realizes her body isn’t behaving quite as she’d intended. Her hands have landed against Brittany’s waist, her fingertips smoothing beneath the hem of Brittany’s shirt, patterned against the plane of her spine. She leans forward with her upper body without meaning to, eyes lidded.

Brittany’s smile is equal parts coy and winning, blonde hair curtaining her face as she draws nearer. Her thumb falls away, pressing to Santana’s chin, replaced by lips softer than Santana could ever have dreamed. She’s kissed a lot of people in her life, and for a lot of reasons, but never has there been someone quite like this: the smooth, even pressure of Brittany’s lips molding to hers, touching to the corners of her lips like she doesn’t want to forget one millimeter of skin in the process. Brittany’s head tilts, her tongue urging into Santana’s mouth with a velvet serenity, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Santana allows herself to respond, tentative, her heart pounding out a brutal tempo as Brittany curls, swiping across the edges of her teeth, tracing letters into the roof of her mouth. Brittany is an excellent kisser, it turns out, and it spurs Santana to open a little wider, to lose control in a way she’s really not to supposed to be doing.

Not that they’re supposed to be doing _any_ of this, but the rest of it was acceptable. The rest of it was just Brittany being Brittany, being physical, coming close in a way no one else is allowed to. Brittany being Brittany, she can handle, but this…this is different. She’s not sure _what_ this is; the only thing she knows is, Brittany’s tongue is magic inside her mouth, a Pied Piper urging her to do things she’s only ever done in the darkest of dreams. Urging her to kiss back with a frightening need, her teeth nipping at pink lips, her own tongue sinking into her best friend until colored lights flash behind her eyes.

Her hands clutch at Brittany’s smooth skin, palming up her back until they reach the clasp of her bra, and it is only in that moment that Santana startles out of her reverie. She’s never kissed another girl like this, never to the point where she _remembered_ it was a girl like this. She has never felt another girl grind in her lap like this, pinning her to the bed like this, sucking her lower lip into a warm, wet mouth like this.

She’s never had _Brittany_ like this—back arched, breasts heaving against Santana’s, legs tightening against Santana’s tense thighs. She’s never heard the tiny mewling noises Brittany is making, even as Brittany tears her mouth away and pins it instead to Santana’s neck, licking hot stripes up and down, sucking at the throbbing pulse beneath her skin. She has never heard Brittany growl like this, right into her ear, sending aching little shivers up and down her spine as she struggles to pull at Brittany’s hips, fingers snagging in belt loops, in back pockets, until Brittany is flush against her. She has never felt this wild sort of urgency, pushing her to slide down on the mattress, to pull Brittany with her, her eyes rolling back in her head as Brittany’s tongue flicks her earlobe.

She _knows_ it’s Brittany, and she knows Brittany is a girl—a girl with breasts, and long hair that keeps catching between her teeth, and round hips that are bucking up and down like maybe Brittany didn’t think this through very well, either—but somehow, she isn’t really focusing on that part. The girl part. The part where this is just about the gayest thing they have ever done in a _lifetime_ of fairly gay activities.

Gay activities have always been okay with Brittany—a peck here, a snuggle there, falling asleep in one another’s arms like a pair of puzzle pieces—but this seriously takes the cake. Every cake. This takes the fucking bake shop, and still, Santana can’t stop herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers chanting, _Statue, statue, statue_ , but now—

Brittany’s hand is delving between them, cupping her through her shorts. Cupping, thumb tracing experimentally, and Santana groans. Brittany, who has _done it_ with some dickwad from third period gym class, who has absolutely never been quite this close to her before, is slipping her hand under Santana’s waistband. Brittany, who came over just to tell Santana what it was like, is feeling her through her underwear, cradling and stroking at a space no one has ever been, and Santana realizes that _she_ is the virgin here. That was never supposed to be the case, not with the two of them. They should have—

They should have done this together.

The idea sparks and takes off like a fucking rocket, all in the same moment, and if Santana wasn’t so fixated on figuring out how to jimmy open the button on Brittany’s jeans right now, she'd slap a crazy label on it There’s just no time to spare on thoughts like that, on reasonable common sense, because Brittany is looking into her eyes, seeking acceptance and desire and for Santana to say yes—something Santana is pretty certain she’s been gasping on repeat for a strangely long time. She’s been breathing _yes_ in a voice that doesn’t quite belong to her—not the voice she puts on for the boys she goes out with, to make them feel like she’s interested, but a voice she’s only heard in the solitude of this bedroom in the middle of the night. When its her own hand beneath her shorts, working wet skin and hot nerves until her legs twist in the sheets, her hips jerking up off the bed.

She’s never heard herself make these sounds with another person, but then again, this is an afternoon of firsts. She’s never seen Brittany’s eyes roll that way before, either, or heard Brittany _moan_ that way—low and husky, a little ragged around the edges, as Santana’s fingers slip in and curl instinctively. She’s never felt _anything_ like this before, and the idea that someone else—that _Brett Haverford_ —has been here first is excruciating. It’s unfair.

 _Should have been me_ , she thinks, but it’s not really a thought at all. Thoughts inspire control; this is something greater than that. Something like whimpering Brittany’s name into a sloppy kiss as fingers circle her clit at a speed she can’t manage on her own. Something like thrusting up into Brittany’s hand even as her own fingers jerk inside Brittany’s jeans. It’s not a thought so much as desperation made into action, and all Santana knows is that _this_ is what a first time is supposed to be like.

And when Brittany falls beside her, panting for air, her arms encircling Santana’s waist and pulling her in close, Santana knows something else. Something that’s maybe more important than the fact that she’s just had sex with her best friend, or that she feels like she’s wanted that to happen since forever without knowing it.

Santana Lopez, come Monday morning, is going to _kill_ Brett fucking Haverford for ever thinking he had a right to get here first.


End file.
